Someday you will leave this town and not look back
but for now you keep hurtling toward
the red center, the road unfolding,

The companion Enkidu is clay. Sharp March dawn
at my study window, at my view of twenty-seven
budless lakefront elms. By May the water vanishes,

It was our favorite pastime, to be sure,
those hairs waiting to be split, those pieces
that passed understanding. We thought we'd find

As in the plays, the body was decor,
Fit embellishment to a scene
Where chance's misrule seemed to have gone as planned:

In all honesty, saying this
As if reaching out to hold your hand
And attest to a truth, my tongue

Nothing happened here—nothing ever
happened in our city, and yet it was destroyed.
What could the innocent citizens have done?

I’ve followed the crumbs to your feast,
share the table with Father again,
his anger smoldering belly-deep

No charts nor maps were accorded
him, so he fabricated a route,
a Maginot Line around the earth.

Poor Collins sung the gradual, waiting,
Praying for Eve to arrive. And, while bidding
         For her, sure of failure,

At dusk the ambulance came
pulling all the way up onto the lawn
like a red speed boat drifting